


Am I more than you bargained for yet?

by Aja



Series: Shenanigans Universe [20]
Category: Shenanigans (Original Universe)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Schmoop, Smut, Trope Subversion, everyone involved hates this except the author, i left my dignity back at i think i'll write an abo fic, just so much possessive kink i'm telling you, mortification, so really why not name this after a Fall Out Boy song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-15 23:12:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18082772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/pseuds/Aja
Summary: Elliot, being the kind of utterly relaxed sort who never overthinks things, doesn’t so muchtakecontrol as simply hold out his arms and wait for control to come to him.After all, what’s there to be bothered about? He’s clearly an alpha.





	Am I more than you bargained for yet?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/gifts).



> I know, I know, I'm very sorry for getting us all in this mess. Deepest thanks to EGT for actually liking them for once, oh my god, and for encouragement and cheer-reading and giving me the ending. Negative thanks to EGT for the title, and probably for a bunch of other stuff too. 
> 
> Special thanks to Jonah for loving all Elliot's incredible insults and hating all his perfect shirts. Your priorities are correct, sir.
> 
> I'm gifting this work to myself, because I'm worth it.

Elliot, being the kind of utterly relaxed sort who never overthinks things, doesn’t so much _take_ control as simply hold out his arms and wait for control to come to him.

Since control usually finds him, and since he has _such_ a wonderfully organized and successful life, it’s never occurred to him to worry about something so tawdry and insignificant as his unusually late presentation. After all, what’s there to be bothered about? He’s clearly an alpha.

“I’m clearly an alpha,” he tells the others frequently. Most of them, used to his protestations by now, don’t react, but on this particular day, Jonah happens to be there — they’re in the third-floor lounge of the Paramount, Elliot lounging against Jonah’s side with his legs propped up on Nicholas’s, Nicholas’s feet spread out on the coffee table, Caroline curled up across from them on a loveseat, looking faintly Edwardian with her bobbed hair and her array of long necklaces, and Blake opposite Nicholas, focused on painstakingly de-layering his Snickers bar in what seems to be some sort of obscure surgical procedure.

“Are you quite sure about that?” Jonah asks him, sounding bored. Elliot snorts. Clearly Jonah just means to rile him, because Jonah thinks about as much of Elliot’s showiness as Elliot does of Jonah’s. In fact, Elliot’s only leaning against him at the moment in order to annoy him. He feels a glow of satisfaction at the way it seems to be working.

“Of course,” he says grandly. “Why wouldn’t I be?” He waves a hand at Caroline. “After all, Caroline’s an alpha, and we’re practically twins.”

“Tweedledee and Tweedledum,” Caroline agrees without looking up from her textbook.

“And Nicholas is a beta, and if Nicholas is a beta then surely I have to be an alpha, since we’re such complementary personalities, right?”

“I'm not sure it works that way,” Nicholas says, but he's smiling, and that just makes Elliot feel validated.

“Elliot, you know secondary gender isn't connected to personality type,” Caroline says. “Well, except for, like, Jonah, who's obviously alpha as fuck.”

“Thanks, I think,” Jonah says mildly.

Caroline waves her be-ringed hand. “I mean that in a non-patriarchal sense, of course.”

“Really?” Elliot scoffs. “Jonah practically _is_ the patriarchy.”

“Was,” Jonah reminds him. “I was excommunicated, remember.”

“Oh.” Elliot shifts to look up at him. “I thought you were working on repairing things with your family,” he says, dropping his voice so only Jonah can hear him. “Didn't you tell me that?”

“I... yes, but that was months ago,” Jonah says, sounding genuinely surprised. Elliot's not sure why. Does he think Elliot's memory is as bad as all that?

“We're in conversation,” Jonah says in a normal voice. “But they would definitely be more willing to embrace their prodigal son if he'd just find a nice beta and settle down.”

Nicholas ‘tsks’ in sympathy. “Can't see that happening any time soon?”

Because he's already leaning against Jonah, Elliot can feel him stiffen slightly.

“It’s not that,” he says. “I mean, it is, I’m not really on the market, but they’re worried about heirs. They haven’t seemed to get it through their heads that I’m _gay_ , so I’m not going to be shagging any women any time soon. So unless I run into a unicorn omega or something, I won’t be bringing any genetically produced grandchildren home to the estate. Which means I will, most likely, stay exed out of the family tree.”

By the time he’s finished, they’re all staring at him. Blake’s even put down his Snickers bar. “Fuck,” he says eloquently.

“That’s atrocious,” Elliot tells him, anger seeping into his voice. “That’s completely appalling, you’re aware of this, right?”

Jonah gives him a truly epic side-eye, and Elliot feels his face heat up. Right, it’s no secret Jonah’s family is hideous. But this is...

“Jonah,” Caroline says in her sweetly urgent way, “No amount of family pressure is worth stressing out over this.”

“Oh, I know,” Jonah says. “It’s not a source of stress at all, really.” Which is of course the kind of extravagant lie only Jonah would think he could get away with; but Elliot’s right there, he can _feel_ how tense Jonah is. “It’s just that I’m always well aware it would be much easier if I could magically produce a kid to bring to the bargaining table.”

“Oh, fuck that,” Elliot snaps, and now they all look at him. “Fuck bringing your kids into an environment where they’ve been used to basically _blackmail_ you. God, you deserve so much better than that.”

Something inscrutable and sharp passes over Jonah’s face. It makes Elliot blurt, “I mean. Everyone does. Even you.”

Jonah’s lips twist into their familiar sardonic expression, and Elliot feels strangely relieved to be back on familiar, even ground.

“And there it is,” Jonah says. “Thank you for your solicitude, Elliot, I’ll take it under advisement.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Elliot says, unsure why he’s so discomfited by the turn of this conversation — or even _what_ has unsettled him. “Honestly, you could just go knock someone up whenever you want. Gay or not, we all know you’ll shag anything,”

“Elliot,” Nicholas says reprovingly. But Elliot is done with this strange and supremely unhelpful topic of discussion. Leave it to Jonah to upstage Elliot’s perfectly sage thoughts on his own gender expressions with the sad tale of his Tragic Backstory.

He sits up, but stills automatically when Jonah places a hand unexpectedly on his arm. “If you’re so perturbed by my sinfully slutty ways, Elliot, you might consider that once you present, you may have astonishingly little control over exactly who and what you want to fuck. So instead of judging me, perhaps you might take a lesson or two from me about learning how to remain in charge of your love life. Just a suggestion from one _alpha_ to another.”

And then he smiles a smile that is as much a baring of teeth as anything Elliot’s ever seen from him, and it, it, well, it just won’t do, is all, and Elliot is quite happy to get away from it as soon as he can.

The annoying thing about avoiding Jonah, though, is that avoiding Jonah only lasts as long as Elliot doesn’t need Jonah, and since Jonah is consistently the only other student in Elliot’s theatre classes who’s worth paying any attention to, it’s not long before he’s gritting his teeth and texting him for advice on how to construct their stage design term project, because god knows it’s not like Elliot’s going to waste time with the instructions.

Jonah seems unfazed by Elliot’s abrupt about-face, perhaps because they’ve sniped their way through nearly six semesters at Emerson so far, and quite possibly he recognizes that Elliot is far too self-contained to be beholden to Jonah’s strange moody vicissitudes; and so it isn’t long before they’re hanging out as usual in one of the pubs on Tremont, textbooks and notes scattered everywhere, arguing about David Mamet and Neil LaButte even though they’re both essentially in agreement that both David Mamet and Neil LaButte are assholes.

Elliot’s trying very hard to be chosen to direct the fall production of _Alcestis_ , which means he’s trying his best to be extra-impressive this semester, which means he’s taking a full load of classes and assistant-directing the spring musical. Jonah’s juggling his classes and trying to maintain his scholarships, on top of his job — he entertains kids at parties on the weekends, which sounds like Elliot’s version of hell, except that it apparently tips well enough to subsidize his room and board — and his various acting gigs.

They’re both stressed out and catty and deliciously rude to each other, and unusually willing to skip the bullshit and dive into one another’s brains, and so these study sessions leave Elliot feeling clawed-out and exhilarated and antsy and invigorated.

Surely that’s why Elliot’s brain grinds to a stuttering halt when Jonah mutters one day that he can’t wait until this semester’s over and he’s on his way to Barcelona.

“What?” Elliot blurts.

Jonah looks up.

“You’re not staying in Boston for the summer?” Even as he says it, Elliot wonders why it matters, why on earth he should care if Jonah spends the summer abroad. It’s not like it’s unusual, or like it’s nothing Jonah hasn’t done before. That’s probably why Jonah blinks at him instead of immediately answering.

“Didn’t I tell you?” he says at last, slowly, as if he’s not sure where either of them are going with this. “I got accepted into a summer workshop on absurdism. The first half is in Barcelona and the second half is in Rome. It’s going to be a brilliant opportunity. Mark Rylance is teaching for a week.”

“Oh, well, god forbid anything should keep you from Mark Rylance,” Elliot snarks, still feeling oddly wrong-footed, and he can’t even blame Jonah when his eyes narrow.

“Well, he is the greatest stage actor currently alive,” Jonah says cuttingly, sitting back in the pub booth. “One would think that would satisfy even your high standards.”

“I just meant,” Elliot says, but the truth is that he doesn’t know _what_ he means; only that a strange hollow tendril of guilt and unhappiness is curling through him. “You could do a Mark Rylance workshop here.”

“Or I could be in _Spain_ ,” Jonah says, like he thinks Elliot is daft, and Elliot can’t blame him for that either.

Jonah frowns.  “Elliot,” he says. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Me?” Elliot blinks back at him. “Yes. Perfectly fine, why?”

Jonah gestures pointedly down at Elliot’s hands, which are currently clasping his textbook so tightly his knuckles have gone white. Elliot unclenches and exhales heavily.

“Sorry,” he blurts. “I... I don’t know what I — I think it’s amazing that you’re getting to do that.” Jonah’s eyebrows rise. “Really. You deserve it.” And they keep rising.

“You could easily do directing workshops yourself, if you wanted,” Jonah starts. “It’s not like they’re not out there, I don’t know why you don’t take the opportunities if you want them so badly.”

“No, what? No,” says Elliot. “I don’t want to go to Europe for some kind of directing workshop. Why would I do that when I’d learn just as much here and not have to miss Blake’s annual fourth of July party?” Although, even as he says it, he has to admit that any reasonable person would probably find the prospect of learning directing from Mark Rylance in Spain a better one than staying home in Boston and doing shenanigans.

Jonah tilts his head. “Then what kind of conversation are we having right now?” he asks. “If it’s because I didn’t tell you before, it wasn’t intentional, I just forgot—”

“No!” Elliot exclaims. “Why would you think you needed to tell me, I mean, we’re, it’s not like we’re.” He doesn’t even know how to finish that sentence; he’s not sure what Jonah and he are.

“I believe the common parlance is frenemies,” Jonah says, calmly taking a sip of his alkaline water.

Elliot double-takes. “Is that what you think we are?”

Jonah looks longsuffering. “Well, Elliot, we’re certainly not friends.”

Something about his voice is upsetting. Ellot's explaining to himself why it’s perfectly reasonable for Jonah to describe them that way when the thought dawns on him that he’s upset because he’s, well, _used_ to Jonah. The prospect of his absence is... _annoying_. Clearly some contrary part of Elliot actually _likes_ having him around to spar with and be catty to and exchange intellectual barbs with.

After all, nobody else is going to rope him into completely pointless semantic arguments about librettos versus books while Jonah’s away, or text him at three am solely to try and score a point in their ongoing debate about the ending of _Smash_ , and honestly, it’s absurd that Jonah’s family disowned him right when he was getting interesting. If they hadn’t, maybe he’d just be going off to his Long Island estate for the summer, instead of off galavanting around Europe, unable to entertain Elliot in the style to which he has become accustomed.

“We’re not enemies, either,” he offers softly. Jonah looks vaguely astonished by that.

“No,” he agrees. “I’ve never thought we were.”

“Well, good,” Elliot says awkwardly. “Don’t.”

Jonah’s face does something strange, as if he’s trying very hard to bite back a question. After a moment, he says blithely, “You know, I’m sure I can get Mark Rylance to give you an autograph if you want,” he starts, and when Elliot almost hisses at him from across the table, he breaks into a laugh.

“It’s only for six weeks,” he says, and there it is, that note of gentleness in his voice that utterly belies how sardonic he always is, that touch of something that always makes Elliot twice as annoyed with him. “I’ll tell you all about it when I come back.”

That isn’t what happens, however. Instead, what happens is that one day in mid-July, when the air is stifling and the sun is blinding and even the busiest days feel unnervingly long, stretched almost into unreality, Elliot and Nicholas go to a kite-making festival.

They spend the morning making two giant kites. Nicholas paints his a warm apple-green, then silhouettes it with a mischievous cat whose tail is the kite string. Elliot’s is a tasteful ecru with a trail of dancing russet leaves fluttering down to the tail. Then they spend the afternoon flying their giant kites along the river with all the other kite-makers, and it’s fun and cozy and at some point Elliot lies back on the grass and sticks his kite string between his knees, opens his phone to Instagram a shot of their kites fluttering high in the sky — and then, before he’s really thought about it, texts it to Jonah instead.

Maybe it’s a way of gloating: Hey. Look how much fun we’re having while you’re off _acting_ or whatever. But it doesn’t sit right; he thinks of Jonah, sitting in some Roman palazzo, drinking wine and having insufferable conversations about ~art~ or whatever, getting a buzz from his pocket, pulling out his phone and seeing Elliot’s name.

On second thought, he admits sourly, Jonah’s probably off fucking some twink. He’ll hear the phone vibrate and immediately forget about it. He won’t think of Elliot at all.

Nicholas nudges him. “What’s the frown for?”

Elliot looks up from where he’s been, well, glaring at his phone. He shrugs. “Do you ever think summer is too long?”

Nicholas raises his eyebrows at him. “Uh, no. Never.” He grins. “Why, are you that eager to be directing?”

Elliot shakes his head. “I dunno. Just thinking. I guess I miss...” he trails off. Missing Jonah is a thought not to be borne, a terrible complication, less dwelt on the better. He stands instead and drags Nicholas off to the ice cream shop, and thus he’s in a much better mood later when his phone buzzes, and he looks down and sees a slightly blurred picture of the Trevi Fountain, all lit up at night and surrounded by throngs of people.

The accompanying text reads: _This thrumming awareness of absence_

Warmth shoots through Elliot as he stares at it.

“You really are somewhere else tonight,” says Nicholas, sharp as ever. Elliot feels himself flush.

“I was just... wondering,” he says.

“About?”

Elliot shrugs. “I guess I feel like I could be doing more. With directing. Maybe. I don’t know. It’s probably a stupid idea.”

Nicholas looks at him, all seriousness. “Do you want to do more with directing?”

 _Yes_. Elliot shrugs again. “It’s a lot of work and a lot of debt and no payoff. No jobs, either.”  

“But you’d be amazing,” Nicholas says.

“I’m a business major,” Elliot says.

“You’ve still got a year to turn your theatre minor into a major,” Nicholas says. “And time to decide about grad school, if that’s what you want.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

It’s Nicholas’s turn to shrug. “I just know you’d be able to pull it off if that’s what you want.”

Elliot sends him a smile. “Thanks.”

He’s just thinking about what a good friend Nicholas is when Nicholas ruins it by adding, “So how’s Jonah?”

Elliot blanches. Nicholas’s smile widens into a grin. “You tend to get weird about stuff like this after you’ve been squabbling with Jonah, and you’ve been glaring at your phone off and on all afternoon, so.”

Elliot scowls at him. “He sent me a photo of the fountain. Like he’s some sort of tourist. God.”

He shows Nicholas, who looks impressed. “Caroline would say he has a nice eye for composition.”

Elliot rolls his eyes. “Please, like Jonah needs anything else to be good at.”

Nicholas says, “You have very odd ways of expressing affection,” and just for that, Elliot steals his kite.

Jonah reappears again on a Wednesday, a sunny day in late summer. He shows up without any kind of by-your-leave in the Paramount, wearing a gorgeous butter-yellow suit, Italian-cut, with a faint pink pocket square and mauve socks. Christ, he should not be able to make that work, Elliot thinks, grateful for the distraction from the jolt of fondness that shoots through him.

Jonah looks up, sees him, and just... looks at him.

Elliot greets him. “You look like you got into a street fight with a Paul Klee painting.”

Jonah’s lips quirk. “We got into a tussle,” he says, not quite smiling, “but then Marc Chagall came along and I was able to make a quick getaway.”

“But not a clean getaway,” Elliot says, just to press the point home, but even though he wrinkles his nose, he knows he can’t quite erase the... the something off his face. The fact that he’s glad to see Jonah again, in his ridiculous suit and his love of stupidly bright colors and his natural showiness and all the things that should make Elliot run far away, not step in closer and blurt, before he’s thought better of it, “D’you want to grab a coffee? You can tell me all about how you seduced Mark Rylance.”

It’s just coffee, something they’ve done dozens of times before; it shouldn’t feel odd, he thinks, but the moment he says it, it feels like something big, some sort of turning point. He swallows and looks everywhere but at Jonah.

It takes Jonah a moment longer to answer than Elliot’s expecting, and when he does, there’s a note of chagrin in his voice. “Elliot,” he says. “I’m... I’m about to do a master class upstairs. Professor Sherman asked me if I’d be one of the students for an acting coach they’re thinking of hiring.” He hesitates. “But you’re welcome to come. Maybe afterward, we can...”

Oh, god, Elliot thinks, he thinks this is, like, I’ve asked him on some sort of _date_ or something, like we’re, like I’m, oh, _god_.

“No, I was just, I was just on my way to the library,” Elliot fumbles. “That’s cool, though. I mean. Good for you for grabbing the opportunity. And all that.”

“It’s just a master class,” says Jonah, but this is the thing, it’s never just a performance with Jonah, and abruptly Elliot can’t think of anything he’d rather do less than watch Jonah monologue away in that intimate environment with all those other people auditing him. It’s too much.

“Rain check?” Jonah adds.

And Elliot says, “Sure,” but he really means, _forget the whole idea_ , and the resignation that flits across Jonah’s face tells him he got the message.

Rehearsals for Elliot’s production of _Alcestis_ begin a few weeks before the start of fall semester, and once things are in full swing, he doesn’t have to make excuses to avoid Jonah, because he mainly spends his time focused on rehearsal or focused on prep work for rehearsal or popping in on the set designers, much to their annoyance.

Elliot knows he's good at stressing himself out, usually by dramatically overreacting to everything, and he also knows one of his main challenges as a director is not to offload all his drama onto his poor actors and stage crew. So when his stomach starts to feel queasy one day during rehearsal, he deliberately ignores the niggling feeling that he’s catching some sort of cold. It's still early days in the production; if he really gets sick, his assistant director can step in for a few days, and if not there's no reason to make a big deal out of it. He feeds himself a proper bowl of chicken soup when he gets home that night and curls up in a soothing pile of blankets, and by the next morning he's mostly forgotten about it.

He heads to the library and hides out in a stack reading about various ways to stage a Greek chorus, and in this way mostly avoids interacting with people until he gets to the rehearsal space. For some reason, both on his way to the Paramount and upon his arrival, he's struck with the feeling that people are, like, _looking_ at him. He can feel heads turning when he passes, can feel eyes at his back. He thinks all the weird attention is what’s making his cheeks flush and the back of his neck feel warm; it’s not until he’s trying to focus on rehearsal that he realizes he’s got a proper fever, a new flare-up of whatever bug he’s coming down with.

He suppresses his annoyance with his body for being all, whatever, and tries to focus on rehearsal. But his Greek chorus is weirdly agitated; a couple of the men keep glancing over at him with confused looks on their faces, while some of the women keep fidgeting, and their nervousness permeates the overall mood. After having to repeat himself a couple of times because a few of the actors just _don’t seem to be capable of listening to him_ , it dawns on him that something is really, honestly, out of the ordinary.

He calls for a break and asks his assistant director, Soo-jin, to step in.

“I don’t know why they’re acting this way,” she murmurs, sounding guilty.

He shrugs, trying not to feel like a failing coach who’s been replaced at half-time. “Some days are just weird? It’s fine. I’m just going to step out for a few minutes and let them settle down. You want anything from the vending machine?”

Soo-jin asks for a ginger ale. He goes downstairs to fetch it for her, along with something containing electrolytes for himself. But once he gets to the vending machines in the lobby, something even stranger happens.

There’s no other word for it than... surrounded. Elliot gets his drinks and turns around to find himself flanked by four different men, all considerably larger than himself.

He knows three of them; one’s his staging TA, Lance, another is a vapid psych major named Brad who just hangs out at the theatre department all the time for some reason; the third is a friend from his modern drama class, Wesley. The fourth is a visiting student with whom he’s interacted very little. Elliot thinks he’s Northern European. He doesn’t remember him being quite so tall before this.

He looks around at them.

“Hi?” he says, blinking. They blink back at him.

“Hi, Elliot,” says Wesley. His tone is strangely intense.  He’s never heard Wesley sound like that before, and now he kind of wishes he hadn’t.

“What’s up?” says Brad.

“Have you been doing something different with your hair?” asks Lance.

And then the Northern European dude leans in and _sniffs_ him, breathes him in, nostrils flaring, and Elliot realizes with a start that they’re all _alphas_.

Trying to stay calm, he uncaps his Gatorade and takes a swig, pushing his way past Lance and Brad and heading for the elevator, which is closer than the stairwell. He has to walk through the lobby to reach it, though, and they follow him wordlessly. Not only that, but by the time he gets to the center of the lobby, there’s a _crowd_ of them. He has no idea where they’ve all appeared from at once, this group of large, restless upper-classmen and grad students and — oh, god, he’s pretty sure one of them is a poetry professor. He knows most of them from around the theatre department, and they’re the ones who step in close, murmuring greetings.

“You _have_ been doing something different with your hair,” says Lance, leaning against the wall and staring at him. They’re _all_ staring at him.

“What is this?” Elliot blurts.

“Hey, Elliot, what are you doing right now?” asks Brad.

“What do you care?” Elliot asks, boggling. “You don’t even like me, _Brad_.”

“Who told you that?” Brad asks, looking affronted.

“You did!” Elliot snaps. It comes out a little high-pitched. “We got into a fight about Nietzsche and you said I was too high-maintenance to date anything that wasn’t a mirror.”

Brad laughs. “Oh, yeah, I did, didn’t I? Look, forget all that.”

“He’s not going anywhere with you,” says another man Elliot knows by sight only, an even taller man who’s pushing his way to the front of the group. He’s built and easily elbows the others out of the way, and when he says, “He’s coming with me,” and reaches out to grab Elliot’s arm, a jolt of real fear shoots through Elliot.

“Hey!” Elliot jerks away. “I’m not going anywhere with any of you.”

The alphas around him all _growl_ in displeasure. One of them, another grad student Elliot’s shared classes with, shoves the handsy one, whose lip curls angrily in what could be a silent snarl. Horrified, Elliot steps back, which is a mistake, because now his back is completely against the wall, and the alphas who are closest to him all crowd in closer.

At that moment the elevator dings open next to him, and for a moment Elliot  thinks that’s a good thing, except that instead a bunch of the alphas from rehearsal pour out of it, their pupils dilated and their heads up like they’ve followed his scent all the way downstairs.

They all immediately join the throng of people in the lobby around him, and Elliot’s fear ratchets up a few levels. Soo-jin and a few of the other women from rehearsal step out of the elevator after the others, looking worried.

“Elliot,” Soo-jin says, slipping into the space by the wall next to him “They just all _left_ , they couldn’t stop pacing around after you left, and finally one of them just walked out and the others all followed. I don’t know what’s going on, I couldn’t stop them.”

Elliot smiles weakly and shakes his head to let her know none of this is her fault. He hands her the ginger ale she asked for and tries to think of what to say. His head is on fire suddenly, and his whole body feels woozy and out of his control; since coming downstairs, whatever’s wrong with him has gotten considerably more wrong, and it feels like thinking clearly about all of this is more of an effort than he can muster. He takes another frantic drink of gatorade, noting that his throat has gone completely dry. Then he digs out his phone, hands shaking so hard he nearly drops it, and dashes off a text:

_Emergency SOS need help in Paramt lobby please come ASAP please_

One of the other members of his Greek chorus, Laura, also edges her way past the crowd to join him, and Elliot is weirdly grateful for her and Soo-jin being there with him, an unthreatening barrier between him and whatever the _fuck_ is happening with everyone else.

“Elliot, don’t take this the wrong way,” she says, her voice low, “but I’m an alpha, and I don’t know what’s going on right now, but you’re giving off a crazy amount of pheromones.”

“What does that mean?” Elliot barks, then instantly regrets it because speaking loudly is making his eardrums quiver.

“I have no idea,” she says. “It seems like you should be presenting, but this is _weird_.”

“I’m not presenting,” Elliot says blankly. “I can’t be. I’m clearly not presenting as an alpha, but if I were presenting as a beta, I’d be losing body hair and dropping weight, right?”

“And you’d be exhibiting signs of hyperactivity,” Laura says.

“And you’d typically have done all that about half a decade ago,” Soo-jin adds.

“What part of presenting gives you a fever?” Elliot asks.

“I don’t know,” says Laura. “I’ve never heard of that before.”

Soo-jin chews her lip and looks like she wants to reply, but doesn’t. Next to them, Wesley says, “Elliot, stop dicking around,” and reaches his hand out to touch — exactly what part of him, Elliot doesn’t know, because Laura snaps, “Hey!” and slaps his hand away.

The movement causes a ripple effect of displeasure among all the other alphas, who surge towards them as one angry wave of hormonal energy, hands reaching for Elliot, some of them grabbing at his waist, his arms, even clutching at his hair.  One person — Derrick the stage management grad student — tries to tug Soo-jin out of the way to get to him. She screams, and Laura swears and fights him off by hitting him in the face with her purse. He lets go of Soo-jin and yelps in pain, and another alpha Elliot doesn’t recognize just... shoves him out of the way and takes his place.

Soo-jin lurches back and clings to Elliot, looking as terrified as Elliot feels. A moment later there’s a chorus of alarm as a few more people insert themselves into the crowd. Betas, Elliot realizes, with a rush of relief. There are betas surging into the frenzy to help them, to break up the mass of groping arms. A few of them make it to the front, and Laura quickly links their arms together to form a wall around Elliot and Soo-jin. “Back _up!_ ” she orders, and this time the other alphas listen and obey, some of them apparently forced into a renewed sense of shame by the arrival of a bunch of disapproving betas.

“What the _fuck_ , guys?” snaps a girl who’s been in every one of Elliot’s directing classes. Elliot’s never been able to remember her name from semester to semester, and he feels a rush of guilt as she shoves her way into the center of the throng and starts ordering people to give Elliot some room.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Brad says, sounding a bit dazed. “I dunno what came over me, man.” Wesley apologizes, too, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear it, and they, along with a few of the others, shuffle their way out of the building.

But that just has the adverse effect of letting some of the more aggressive people get closer to Elliot.

“Fuck this,” says the tall Nordic guy, with feeling. “What are you even doing leading us on like this, if all you want to do is tease us?”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!” Elliot says. “I’m not leading anyone on!”

“Like fuck you’re not,” says the tall Nordic guy, and he shoves his way forward, breaking past the wall of betas and clamping a hand around Elliot’s shoulder. Elliot freezes.

“Like you didn’t know what you were doing?” the Nordic guy asks, his features darkening. “Coming here in _heat_ , you omega slut?”

Elliot’s jaw drops. His throat goes instantly dry all over again. “What?” he rasps.

“You didn’t know?” The Nordic guy scoffs. “Bullshit.” He tightens his grip around Elliot’s shoulder and shakes it. “Bull. Shit.”

“Oh, god,” says Soo-jin. “I thought it might be this.”

“What?” Elliot says again, dumbly.

“Elliot, you really need to get out of here,” she says. Elliot reaches up to try to detach the Nordic guy’s grip from his shoulder, but the Nordic guy only frowns at him.

“You need to let me go,” Elliot says, aware that his voice is trembling.

The Nordic guy snorts. “Do I?” he says.

And then something is _happening_ : a ripple of movement parts the throng, and then the Nordic guy’s arm is being wrenched away from Elliot, and Jonah steps in past the betas and says, “Jesus Christ, Elliot,” in a voice like sandpaper, and Elliot doesn’t actually think before he wraps his arms around Jonah and clings to him for dear life. The other alphas around him are murmuring agitatedly, and Jonah is angling his body between Elliot and the rest of them. Around them, the alphas grumble and shift positions, not quite backing away but not crowding quite as close, either. It’s as if Jonah’s presence has spoken more effectively for Elliot than he has himself.

“What are you doing here?” he mumbles against Jonah’s chest.

“You summoned me,” Jonah says, and it’s only then that Elliot remembers his text from what seems like a whole lifetime ago. Had he sent that to Jonah?

“Oh,” he says muzzily.

“You didn’t tell me you were in _heat_ ,” Jonah says. His voice is shaking a bit.

“I didn’t _know_ ,” Elliot says. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

He curls against Jonah, and Jonah mutters an eloquent curse.

“Seriously, man?” asks an alpha near them. “You just, like, get all the tail you want and now this? You get the goddamn unicorn too?”

Jonah shoots whoever it is a withering glare and says, “Charming. I can’t imagine why the betas aren’t falling all over you.”

“Fuck you,” says the alpha.

“Fuck _all_ of you,” says one of the betas. “Mobs like this are why omegas are second-class citizens!”

“No one is turning anyone into a second-class citizen!” Laura declares. “Everyone just back up and give Jonah and Elliot some fucking room!” She and some of the betas renew their attempts to scatter them, and finally, finally, the group starts to disperse, and Elliot can breathe.

“Right,” says Jonah, tightening his arms around Elliot, who turns his face into Jonah’s chest, feeling shameless and needy and _so fucking grateful_ , and not much caring how he must look. “Elliot, listen to me. I’m going to ask you some questions and you need to tell me yes or no, okay?”

“Yes,” says Elliot, nodding. He can do ‘yes’ or ‘no’ — that seems pretty manageable in the middle of the panic fighting to overwhelm him.

“Okay,” Jonah says. “You’re in heat, which means you need to go to a doctor, or else you need to be partnered with an alpha. Do you want to go to a doctor?”

“No,” Elliot says, thinking with horror of the days of rehearsal that will be lost if he winds up having to wait out whatever this is in a hospital bed.

“Right. Do you understand what will happen if you partner with an alpha right now?”

“Yes,” Elliot says, pushing back even harder against the surge of panic. “I think so.”

“Do you want to partner with any of these men?”

“ _No_ ,” Elliot says. “ _No_ , no, no.”

“Okay. You’re fine. That’s not going to happen.” Jonah’s hand drops down to rub a comforting circle against Elliot’s back, and Elliot closes his eyes and lets it calm him, tries to breathe. Someone near him, perhaps the Nordic guy, gives a final noise of disgust and departs, and some primitive part of Elliot reacts to this by clinging even more tightly to Jonah, digging his fingernails into Jonah’s sweater with a kind of possessive satisfaction.

“Elliot,” Jonah asks, and now his voice really is trembling. “Do you want me to take you to Nicholas?”

“Nicholas?” Elliot looks up at him. “He’s a _beta_.”

“He’s your best friend,” Jonah says softly, and Elliot gets caught by the look in his eyes. He’s an alpha, and his pupils are dilated like all the others, and Elliot realizes that it’s not just his voice that’s run through with tremors.

Jonah’s whole body is shaking, but Elliot knows he’s trying to be very, very still, trying his best not to upset Elliot or threaten him or frighten him; and as he looks into Jonah’s face, a wave of something deep and urgent and hungry washes over him, and Elliot thinks, _oh_ , just as Soo-jin beside him says awkwardly, “You look like you’ve got this, I’m going to just... I’m just gonna go.”

“You’re his assistant director, aren’t you?” Jonah says to her, not looking away from Elliot. “You’re going to need to take over for him for the next few days. I can email Dr. Forster and explain what’s happening, unless you’d rather.”

“Oh,” she says warily, glancing at Elliot. “That’s ... fine. I’ll leave you to it.” And she pats Elliot on the arm and flees.

“Right,” says Jonah, and he sounds as if he’s having trouble forcing out the words. “Elliot, do you want me to take you to Jane or Caroline?”

“Jonah,” Elliot murmurs, so low Jonah has to bend his head a little to catch the words. “You _know_.”

Jonah takes a deep breath. “Do you want me to take you to my apartment?” he asks, and then he looks as if all the air’s left him at once.

“Yes,” Elliot says. “ _Yes_.”

Jonah swallows. He reaches up to cup Elliot’s cheek and then palm his forehead. “Christ, you’re on fire. Okay. I’ve got my car here, it’s going to be about 15 minutes, is that okay? Can you wait that long?”

“Yes,” says Elliot, even though he immediately thinks, _No_.

In the fog of feverish nebulous yearning sweeping over him, he hardly knows what he can’t wait for, but when Jonah steps away from him long enough to dig his phone out of his pocket and turn towards the exit, the absence of the warm crush of Jonah’s body is so stark and unacceptable that Elliot immediately lets out a pained cry and launches himself at Jonah’s back.

Jonah promptly turns back to him and pulls him close, herding him through the Paramount lobby out into the open air, where the sunshine at his back shouldn’t make him shiver harder, but somehow only makes him even antsier, makes him shudder and arch himself against Jonah with increasing agitation. It gets even worse once they get to Jonah’s car and Elliot realizes there’s a whole console in between them, and will be for the next interminable quarter-hour. He shifts and fidgets and bites back a number of faintly desperate noises, until Jonah finally reaches over and places a cool, soothing hand at the back of Elliot’s neck and says, “Elliot, I’m so sorry this is—” at the same moment Elliot blurts, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s _happening_ to me,” and then they look at each other a bit helplessly.

“I don’t want to rope you into this,” Elliot says, tears springing to his eyes as he says it. Never once in years of thinking about how he and Jonah might finally work things out between them, if there even _was_ anything to work out, had he thought it would involve some kind of, of _frenzied mating cycle_ , and his mortification at the thought of Jonah being conscripted into Elliot’s drama is overwhelming.

But Jonah just runs his thumb over the back of Elliot’s neck and says softly, “You’re not roping me into anything. It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”

“I hope _we’re_ going to be okay,” Elliot says plaintively.

Jonah takes a deep breath. “I don’t know much about this, but I think you’re supposed to lose coherence very rapidly once we get back to my apartment,” he says. “So I need you to pay attention to me and give me as much information as you can now, while you can, can you do that for me?” His thumb is still stroking the back of Elliot’s neck.

“I’m always paying attention to you,” Elliot says, a little indignantly. He tugs Jonah’s hand into his own. Jonah huffs out a small laugh.

“Elliot,” he says. “When we get back to my place, if we can’t get you an effective heat suppressant, then you’re going to need to mate. Is that something you want to do with me?”

Elliot gulps. “Yes,” he says in a small voice, eyes glued to Jonah for his reaction.

Jonah darts him a look, relieved and anxious all at once, and Elliot grips his hand even harder. “Okay,” Jonah says, his voice shaking even more, if that’s possible. “When we mate, do you want me to — to knot you?”

“Oh, jesus fuck yes,” says Elliot, and Jonah nearly drives off the road.

“I mean,” Elliot yelps as Jonah un-swerves his confused Volvo and Elliot is momentarily jolted into a renewed awareness of just how _utterly unfairly absurd_ all of this is. “Only if you want to.”

“Okay,” Jonah says. “Okay.” He lets out an uneven breath. “This is the worst — everything about this is the worst,” Jonah says fervently. “But I promise you that you’re safe, Elliot, I promise you I won’t hurt you, I’ll make this as easy as I can, and if you don’t want it to mean anything then afterwards I won’t hold you to it, I’ll — we’ll make something work.”

“Jonah,” Elliot says. He doesn’t know what to do, so he adds his other hand to the one already holding Jonah’s and turns to face him completely. “You’re such a _dolt_ , do you really think I’d be doing this with just anyone? Do you really think I would have just picked some rando to shack up with if you weren’t here?”

“I...” Jonah seems to be considering his words carefully, and then with a grimace, he just... lets them go.

“Elliot,” he finally says, with a note of steel in his voice, “if you’d chosen anyone else for this — if this had happened while I was away from you, if you’d had to turn to anyone else... I’d’ve torn them limb from limb.”

He sounds so precise and intense that it takes a moment for Elliot to stop marveling at the tone of his voice and process what he’s actually said. When he does, a rush of air leaves him at once.

“Oh,” he says, feeling something wild and foreign ballooning inside of his chest, a giddy onslaught of joy, followed by a sharp wave of arousal that leaves him arching into nowhere, racked with frustration and something new: a keen awareness of emptiness.

“God knows this is the least romantic declaration in the universe,” Jonah continues, “but there’s no helping it. You should know that I’ve never knotted anyone before, Elliot. I’ve never wanted to before this, and I wouldn’t want to — not with anyone but you.”

“Oh,” says Elliot, turning red.

“And I,” says Jonah, trying to articulate the words, and clearly annoyed that he’s having to say them while driving down the interstate towards the south end. “I need you to know this isn’t just a one-time thing, with me,” he says.

“ _Oh_ ,” says Elliot, the giddy balloon inside him threatening to burst.

“I don’t want to just mate with you,” Jonah says. “I want to _mate_ you.”

“Oh,” says Elliot, and that’s it, he’s gone, there’s nothing but a wave of euphoria and endorphins and arousal and need washing over him, floating him away on it, into a lovely new world where the only thing he needs is Jonah over him and around him inside him.

He raises Jonah’s hand and spontaneously kisses it. Then it feels like a really good idea to suck Jonah’s index finger into his mouth. Jonah lets out a strangled noise.

“Is, is that okay?” Jonah asks Elliot, from what sounds like far away. Elliot hums enthusiastically and swirls his tongue around Jonah’s finger. It’s probably not completely satisfying as an answer, he knows, but then Jonah being a whole seat away from him is completely unsatisfactory, and turnabout, fair play, et cetera.

“Right,” says Jonah faintly, and then his finger is slipping away, and Elliot scoffs in protest, but Jonah is barking something at his bluetooth and his car is calling someone.

Elliot leans back against his seat and curls towards Jonah, reaching a hand out to rest upon his arm, just to touch him. The ringtone cuts off, and Nicholas’s voice fills the car. “Hey, Jonah, what’s up?”

“I need your help,” Jonah says without preamble. “Or rather, Elliot does.”

“What’s wrong?” Nicholas’s voice is instantly on edge, on alert.

“He’s presented,” Jonah says. “As an _omega_.”

There’s a noise on the other end of the call that sounds like Nicholas might have dropped the phone. “What?”

“He’s gone into _heat_ ,” Jonah says. “I’ve just had to rescue him from about twenty alphas at the Paramount who were on the verge of starting a riot before I showed up.”

“Jesus. Is he okay?”

“He’s fine, he’s safe,” Jonah says. “But he needs heat suppressants. Can you get your hands on some?”

“You need a prescription,” Nicholas says. “I’ll have to find Caroline’s dad, he may have some on hand.”

“Right,” says Jonah. “Fuck. Of course. Because omegas are almost never able to get heat suppressants until after they’ve had their first heats. God, that’s so fucked up.”

“It’s just that they’re so _rare_ ,” Nicholas says. “I think the official stat is something like one in 200,000 people.”

“Christ,” says Jonah. “As if Elliot needed another reason to feel special.”

“Hey!” says Elliot. Jonah looks over at him and laughs, sounding helpless and fond. Elliot leans over and bites his shoulder gently, then leans against it even though there’s a console between them. Jonah lifts his arm and drapes it carefully around Elliot’s shoulder.

“How far gone is he?” Nicholas asks.

“Not sure. He’s starting to become more incoherent.”

“Because if he’s more than 24 hours into his heat cycle, the suppressants won’t work until after his first round of mating anyway,” Nicholas says.

Jonah turns to Elliot.

“Elliot,” he murmurs, and Elliot is grateful to him for pitching his voice low, “how long have you been feeling like this?”

Elliot mumbles. “Dunno. Yesterday.”

“Fuck,” says Jonah. “Morning or evening?”

“Rehearsal,” Elliot says.

“Great. So it’s probably been more than 24 hours,” Jonah says.

“Okay,” says Nicholas. “So...”

“So this is the worst day of my life,” Jonah says feelingly.

“Is it?”

“Well, how would you feel if all your plans to slowly befriend and seduce the love of your life had just been bulldozed by a sudden biological imperative requiring both of you to turn into, into _sex machines_ ?”

“Well, it’s definitely not going to be romantic if you go into it thinking like that,” Nicholas says.

Jonah snorts. “Great, then, Romeo, what’s the plan, then? He’s going to hate me after this is over.”

“Hate you? Jonah, he’s in love with you.”

Jonah doesn’t drive them off the road this time, but even in his haze Elliot can sense it’s a close thing.

“I,” says Jonah, and then: “What?”

“He _pined_ over you all summer. He tried hard not to be all lost-puppy about it but he failed. And then when you came back he complained about your suit for a week. With Elliot, that’s how you know it’s true love.”

“I,” says Jonah again, and then he looks at Elliot in wonder.

“Come on, did you really not know?” Nicholas laughs. “God, I can’t wait to tell Jane.”

“Yes, please mine the most embarrassing day of both our lives for comedy,” says Jonah, but he’s laughing as he says it, and Elliot feels a wash of relief on his behalf. He doesn’t want Jonah to be anxious about all this.

“So you’re going to mate him, then,” Nicholas says.

“He said that’s what he wants.” Jonah swallows. “He also asked for the, um. The knot.”

“The — oh, god, Jonah, I can’t talk about that with you!”

“You’re a med student!”

“Yeah, but it’s _Elliot_ ,” Nicholas protests. “Okay, listen, don’t panic, if you go into a rut, just go with it.”

“A _rut_.” Jonah sounds horrified.

“It’s not uncommon when alphas mate omegas,” Nicholas says. “The thing to do is for both of you to relax and trust yourselves and your partner.  Don’t try to fight it, that’ll just prolong the experience and make it intensify.”

“Right,” Jonah says hollowly. “Just give ourselves over to the evolutionary need to mindlessly fuck.”

“I mean,” says Nicholas wryly, “there sure are worse things that can happen.”

“Is it worth even trying to use condoms?” Jonah asks.

“Definitely not if you’re knotting him, that gets really dangerous.”

“God, this is really happening, isn’t it,” Jonah says. They’re finally, blessedly, pulling into his apartment complex and up to his door. Elliot’s never spared a moment to be grateful before that Jonah’s apartment is on the ground floor, but now it seems like the wisest choice man ever made.

“Look,” Nicholas says, “Just stay calm and be yourself, you’ll be _fine_.  It sounds like the heat’s going to take him, so you’re going to need a few hours to yourselves. I’ll be over later tonight with suppressants, if I can get my hands on them.”

“And if you can’t?”

“Then no matter what,” Nicholas says, “I’ll be over later tonight with morning-after pills.”

It’s odd; as Jonah leads him into the apartment, Elliot gets calmer by degrees and Jonah gets more agitated by the second. Elliot can feel the haze almost fully overtaking him now, increasing with every moment he spends in what is clearly Jonah’s domain; something about being on Jonah’s home turf triggers all Elliot’s senses into a heightened state of awareness of Jonah’s presence near him and his own reactions to Jonah’s body, his movements, his mood.

Jonah stands in the middle of the floor of his living room for a moment after bringing Elliot inside, staring at it blankly, like he’s never seen his own apartment before. “Right, he says after a moment, and then he paces around for a few seconds until Elliot goes to him and wraps his arms around him, wanting him to just be still and hug him like he’d done earlier.

Jonah does hug him. “Elliot,” he says softly, resting his chin on top of Elliot’s head.

Elliot burrows against him and says, “Thank you,” he says. The words feel a little as if they’re being tugged out of him; he thinks he might be slurring them a little. “You didn’t have to come.”

Jonah sighs, and Elliot can feel the way it rumbles in his own nerve endings. “You are the most,” says Jonah. “Of course I came. I’m—” He tilts Elliot’s chin up to look at him, and Elliot melts.

“I’m always going to come to your rescue,” Jonah says, his voice a deep rumble, and Elliot’s whole body reacts to this, as if Jonah’s just run a giant hand down his spine and rubbed him between his ears. He shivers.

“I didn’t have a list of people to call,” Elliot tells him. “I only wanted you.”

They look at each other, and through the gathering fog of his senses Elliot feels a pinprick of clarity: this is why he’s always been disinterested in romance, why he’s always vaguely wondered if he might be asexual; not because he wasn’t capable of love or sexual intimacy, but because he hadn’t found _Jonah_. The constant tug he’s felt towards him since the moment they met hasn’t just been emotional, but chemical; something in him has yearned for this, has yearned to, to _belong_ to Jonah, the way all omegas are biologically designed to long for their mates. This makes sense — well. Not the heat, which makes no sense, but the two of them, the way they’ve always been drawn hopelessly together even when they were trying their best to stay apart.

He presses closer, aching to be kissed. But the moment he arches up, Jonah pulls back sharply. “Wait,” he says, his voice shrill.

Elliot stares at him, barely comprehending. “Wait?” He’s shaking all over now, shivering uncontrollably at the loss of touch.

Jonah pushes Elliot’s hair back from his face. “Fuck,” he says. “You’re burning up, Elliot. I need to, I need to get us some water. And supplies. Just — god, give me, give me sixty seconds.”

“Can’t _believe_ you,” Elliot slurs, and he’s definitely getting fuzzier. “You’re all,” he waves a hand to indicate everything Jonah is, “and I’m,” and he can’t even try to articulate this feeling so he just wrinkles his nose and huffs impatiently.

The laugh that escapes Jonah is helpless and scared and affectionate, and Elliot realizes suddenly, with a sharp pang in his chest, that Jonah’s letting him see how nervous he is, so Elliot will feel less alone, less overwhelmed. He bends to kiss Elliot’s forehead, and even that causes arousal to spark through Elliot.

“Sixty seconds,” he repeats when Elliot lets out a gasp. “Meet me in the bedroom, I’ll be right there.”

Elliot’s never been in Jonah’s bedroom before — he’s only been inside Jonah’s apartment a few times, briefly, and hasn’t ever had a moment to really take in his surroundings before. But when he stumbles into the bedroom, Jonah’s _smell_ is everywhere, and Elliot hadn’t known until this second that he knew Jonah’s smell, but it surrounds him now, heady and musky and bold, and the moment he steps into the room and it hits his nostrils, Elliot is instantly hit with the strongest wave of arousal yet. It’s so fierce his knees nearly buckle, and he clutches the doorframe, suddenly _wet_.

He lets out a helpless noise he’s relieved Jonah didn’t hear and wraps his arms around himself, shivering and trying to concentrate on anything except the strange fire crinkling all his nerve endings, the growing desperation and want centered between his thighs, the way his body is already leaking, his muscles already quivering, working automatically, trying to contract to draw in an intrusion that isn’t there. _Jonah._ He needs Jonah _inside of him_. He should probably feel horrified, alarmed at how fast this is all happening, but he’s too dizzy with desire and high from pheromones and oddly comforted by being _here_ , in Jonah’s bedroom.

He’s racked with another body-wracking surge of arousal then, and he instinctively moves to the bed and sinks onto it, clutching one of Jonah’s pillows, drawing it to his chest and cradling it, breathing in the scent of him, trying to calm himself. A moment later, Jonah enters and gingerly sets down the tray he’s carrying: a row of water bottles, a basin and a washcloth, a bottle of oil, and a single lit candle.

The part of Elliot’s brain that’s barely clinging to consciousness can’t resist this setup, and he opens his mouth to mock Jonah for _lighting candles_ while he’s lying here like a suffering Victorian maiden; but his throat is completely dry, and the effort of speaking suddenly feels overwhelming. Instead, he finds himself reaching to pull Jonah down onto the bed, and when Jonah settles next to him, all Elliot can do is cling to him.

Jonah strokes his hair and murmurs, “You’re alright, you’re doing fine,” and uncaps a water bottle and tips it past Elliot’s lips.

Elliot closes his eyes and lets the water cool him, soothe his parched throat. “Thanks,” he rasps, and even though it’s barely above a whisper it still comes out sounding urgent and needy.

“Elliot,” Jonah says, taking a sip himself and then sliding his arms around Elliot. “One last thing. If I go into a rut — that’s never happened to me before, but I’m assuming I won’t be able to stop myself. And you won’t be able to communicate if something’s wrong. Do you understand what that means?” Elliot nods. “Are you okay with that?” Elliot nods again, but Jonah’s eyes are searching his anxiously. He thumbs Elliot’s cheek. “Are you sure? God, if I hurt you, I’ll never—”

“I want it,” Elliot blurts. “Want all of it, want you.”

“Elliot,” Jonah says. He cups Elliot’s face with both his hands. “Sweetheart.” Elliot lets out a soft burble of inarticulate sound, and Jonah bends close.

“I’ve been in love with you since the moment I laid eyes on you,” Jonah tells him, his voice low and desperate, full of barely contained arousal that Elliot can feel under his own skin. “You’re all I want.”

Elliot draws in a ragged breath and tries to stammer out, “Then take me, I’m right here,” but all that comes out is a faint rasp: “ _Take_.”

And with that, Jonah kisses him, and Elliot surrenders the last of his coherence.

For a moment it’s so perfect Elliot can’t do anything but let it happen; Jonah’s mouth on his is a starburst of sensation and awareness, a new, blinding, white-hot locus of fire inside of him. It sparks a sudden primal rush of need inside of him to _submit_ , to _be taken over by this_ , to let Jonah do whatever he wants with Elliot’s body, to let the alpha in him master Elliot and take control and mate him until he’s been subdued and pinned down and tied and taken and _owned_. The feeling is so strong Elliot murmurs something incoherent against Jonah’s lips, a helpless expression of need before his instinct takes over and he finally, _finally_ kisses back.

He surges up, sliding his tongue between Jonah’s lips and scrabbling at his shirt, his movements drunk and ineffectual. Somewhere in the back of Elliot’s brain he’s aware that Jonah is trying his best to go slow, to kiss Elliot like he’s something precious, like he’s something wonderful and rare and delicate that Jonah has to be careful with. But it’s excruciating, because all Elliot wants is _more_ , and when he makes a frustrated, guttural noise, Jonah finally takes pity on him and slides his own shirt over his head with one clean movement, revealing a firm, taut stomach and a surprisingly well-defined chest that Elliot sinks against, running his hands over Jonah’s muscles as he tries to tug him down to the bed.

Jonah huffs out a laugh and then says, “I’ve wanted to do this to these fucking shirts since the moment I met you,” and then he _rips Elliot’s shirt open and flings it somewhere over his shoulder_ , and Elliot’s last remaining vestiges of reason scatter along with all his pearl Oxford buttons.

He squirms and arches and tries to convey his desire to melt into Jonah’s lap, but Jonah pulls back and just _looks_ at him, eyes raking in every inch of Elliot’s lanky frame, which is probably fine on some planet where Elliot is not _literally dying from the need to be fucked_. The distance between them is so unacceptable that Elliot actually whines a little, and Jonah’s eyes snap to his face, the look of dawning lust in his eyes instantly replaced by concern and alarm.

“Sorry,” he says hoarsely, “I’m so sorry.” Elliot, dazed, feels faintly confused about what Jonah should be sorry for, but then Jonah reaches down and strips his pants and boxers off with brisk efficiency, and the reveal of his cock, jutting out, firm and already glistening, pushes everything else from Elliot’s rapidly narrowing field of awareness.

It’s beautiful, hard and full and hefty, and Elliot’s been with alphas before, he’s seen alphas naked before, but he’s never felt anything like _this_ when he’s been faced with a massive alpha erection. This is _his_ , this is the thing he’s going mad for, the thing he _needs_ inside of him.

The bulge of Jonah’s knot is already starting to show faintly at the base of Jonah’s cock. He stares at it, mesmerized; he’s so fixated he’s not even embarrassed when Jonah reaches out and removes the rest of Elliot’s clothes and finds him completely soaked with precome.

Jonah swallows and stares at Elliot and then leans in to kiss him again. Elliot’s shivering so uncontrollably now that it takes him a long moment to process that Jonah’s still trembling, too, now almost as badly as he is. Something in him reaches for the threads of his coherence in order to say something reassuring, but he’s too far gone; words are beyond him.

He kisses back, instead, open and earnest and eager, trust and yearning and _safe_ vibrating through him, turning his kisses soft and desperate. He wraps his arms around Jonah’s neck and breathes him in, nuzzling his jawline and his throat and finally going pliant and passive against him, willing Jonah to understand.

And finally, _finally_ , after a moment of frozen non-reaction, Jonah must comprehend at last, because he murmurs Elliot’s name and says, “Okay, okay, I’m here, shhh,” and Elliot holds onto him tighter, eyes fixed on his face as Jonah pushes him back and settles him against the pillows.

Jonah runs a hand down Elliot’s stomach and tentatively brushes his finger over the underside of Elliot’s cock, already hard against his abdomen. The contact nearly jolts Elliot off the mattress, and even though he’s barely been touched he orgasms immediately, come spilling over his chest and pooling between his thighs. They both register a moment of surprise, which lasts until Elliot’s orgasm subsides and his erection... doesn’t.

Elliot musters enough cogency to wonder what other kinds of unexpected things his body will do now, but Jonah just grips his hips and presses kisses over his chest and shoulders and lips, half-murmuring soothing endearments against his skin. A moment later he reaches for the washcloth in the basin. He keeps kissing Elliot, lingering and sweet, while he’s wiping the come and sweat from Elliot’s chest and thighs, gentling him even as the fire inside Elliot flares up again and he whines piteously, trying in vain to get relief from his ineffectual attempts to frot against Jonah’s thigh.

Jonah soothes him. “I know,” he murmurs. “No more waiting, I promise.” He tilts Elliot’s hips up and slings Elliot’s right leg over his broad shoulder, and Elliot’s whole body contracts with anticipation even before Jonah slides his long fingers inside of him.

It’s the first flash of real relief Elliot’s felt in hours, and it’s immediately not enough. Jonah seems to sense this, too, because he sucks in a shocked breath — a hiss with an edge of arousal, maybe at how fucking _wet_ Elliot is for him. His eyes darken again as he assesses Elliot’s ragged breaths, the way his whole body is already contracting around Jonah’s fingers.

The energy in the air between them shifts.

“Look at you,” Jonah murmurs, staring at Elliot. “Who knew you were hiding all of this?” He drags his fingers slowly in and out of Elliot, smile flickering across his face when Elliot fists the bedsheets and shudders. “Well, actually,” he adds. “I knew.” He presses a kiss against Elliot’s inner thigh, where his touch is scalding and ice-cold all at once. Elliot gasps, and Jonah, merciless, leans down to murmur the rest against Elliot’s lips.

“I knew, Elliot, I _knew_ you were waiting for me to take you,” he says. Elliot blurts Jonah’s name, helplessly, arching up for him, trying in vain to impale himself on Jonah’s fingers even though they’re a paltry irritation compared to the thing he really wants, the thing his entire body is demanding, the thing he can only beg for until Jonah finally takes pity on him and _gives_ it to him; and that shouldn’t make him feel even _more_ hopelessly aroused, but it fills Elliot with wave after wave of lust, and every time Jonah withdraws and finger-fucks him it only gets stronger.

He’s vaguely aware that he’s letting out a string of pleading, mewling sounds, and he can’t seem to stop making them because they’re only making the look on Jonah’s face grow hungrier, darker, like Elliot’s helpless cries of arousal are going straight to his cock. He adds another finger and leans close.

“I should have been knotting you all along,” he mutters, and Elliot fucking _whimpers_.

“I should have been fucking that bratty little smirk off your face and teaching you who you belong to.” His voice is molten and territorial, a tone Elliot’s never heard in him before, and Elliot has zero room for argument left in his brain even if he wanted to argue. He never wants to argue with Jonah again, he wants to agree and agree and agree and belong, he wants to be taken and fucked and wrung out and used and possessed, and _please_ , he thinks, _please, please, please,_ and in response to the unrestrained noises Elliot is making, Jonah removes his fingers and suddenly slides inside him with one protracted, smooth movement.

Elliot’s muscles ripple and pulse around him, flexing to sheath him, one infinite inch at a time, and when Jonah grips his hips and shifts to guide himself in deeper, Elliot’s entire world whites out for a moment on the sheer sensory overload of his body taking in Jonah’s cock.

He comes again, immediately, his cock spasming frictionless against his stomach, and when he comes around to himself again, Jonah’s face is awed as he watches him. “Fuck,” he murmurs, wrapping his hand around Elliot’s pulsing erection, “you’re so, _Elliot_ , this is,” and even after his orgasm has been wrung out of him, Elliot’s whole body contorts in response to the sheer need in Jonah’s voice.

He’s so far gone himself that he doesn’t really register it happening, the moment when Jonah’s possessive instincts overtake him completely; but once he has Jonah inside of him, it doesn’t take long. Jonah seats himself inside Elliot, holding himself almost comically still for a long moment while he kisses Elliot, trying to keep from losing control, and Elliot is so drunk on lust he’s incapable of anything but wrapping his arms and legs around Jonah and drawing him in deeper. The moment Jonah moves, starts to fuck him in earnest, he seems to give himself over to the arousal that must have been swimming inside his veins for ages now; his pupils dilate, he grips Elliot’s hips with a little more roughness, and finally snarls, “ _Fuck_ , I need—” and flips Elliot over onto his stomach, plunging back inside of him and filling Elliot all at once.

Elliot yelps and cries out Jonah’s name, which seems to be the only word he still remembers. Jonah bends low over Elliot’s back and kisses the side of Elliot’s neck with none of the gentleness he’s shown up til now; there’s teeth and urgency in his kisses and more power in his movements, more strength in his arms where he’s holding Elliot in place. In the midst of all his sudden aggression, Elliot’s momentarily alarmed by the show of force, until Jonah shifts up and nibbles Elliot’s ear, teasing and demanding and somehow unbearably sweet all at once, and Elliot lets out a helpless burble of want and affection and lowers his head in submission, clutching the pillow and arching his whole body up for Jonah to take.

And Jonah does; when he returns to fucking Elliot now, it’s rough and fast and forceful. For a few minutes there’s nothing but heat and movement and the slick sharp sounds of Elliot’s body releasing and then opening for Jonah’s cock, over and over and over, followed by Elliot’s soft panged moans and the low grunts of animal pleasure escaping Jonah with every thrust. Elliot is no longer cognizant of anything except the overriding primal directive in his brain to let Jonah inside, inside, inside; so it takes him a moment to realize something is happening and regroup accordingly when Jonah finally finds the limits of Elliot’s body and plants himself there, when the base of his cock begins to slowly flare and stretch the sensitive ring of Elliot’s rim.

Instinctively, Elliot has a flare-up of panic; his body clenches a little painfully, and he squeaks and tries to shift away, but Jonah is there, in him and around him, his broad hips pinioning Elliot into place amid his sudden surge of fear, and when he nestles against Elliot’s shoulder, nuzzling his throat and pleading wordlessly, a shot of affection suddenly fills Elliot, a shot of _home_.

He shivers and relaxes in the same moment, shifting to rub his cheek against Jonah’s as he submits. It’s enough to push him over the edge a third time, coming untouched once more as Jonah’s knot swells inside of him, pressing against his prostate and releasing a throbbing, lowkey slipstream of pleasure with no end in sight.

Elliot passes out.

  
  
  


 

 

It must be only a moment before he comes to again, but it feels like longer; as he slowly regains his awareness, all he’s really conscious of is how utterly _warm_ he feels — not burning up like before, but rather totally ensconced in the warm press of Jonah all around him and inside of him, his scent and his body heat and his arms all enveloping Elliot like the world’s snuggliest blanket. Jonah’s maneuvered them both onto their sides and is cradling him tightly, his head tucked against Elliot’s chin.

When Elliot stirs, Jonah lets out a soft sound — something too hoarse to be a moan and too content to be a groan. Elliot responds with a low sigh, still beyond words and unable to process much more than the way his body feels, stretched and full and vibrating with pleasure, the press of Jonah’s knot as he spends himself inside Elliot becoming a low background thrum against his muscles. His erection has finally subsided, at least for a moment or two, but when Elliot’s animal brain reminds him that he’s being _bred_ , his cock twitches anyway.

As if reading his thoughts, Jonah slides one large hand down over Elliot’s abdomen and keeps it there, shifting to press a kiss to Elliot’s jawline. Elliot lets out a low, needy whine, and Jonah reaches down to cup Elliot’s cock, slowly caressing it to hardness, all the earlier urgency now replaced by something more patient, almost exploratory.

“Elliot,” he says, “my Elliot,” and the tone of his voice, so soft and still somehow so possessive, pierces the haze of Elliot’s awareness and emblazons itself on his memory.

 _Yours_ , he thinks, but still can’t form the brainpower to say, and so he settles for squirming closer still, pressing back against Jonah and reaching up to touch his face as Jonah coaxes yet another orgasm from him.

They stay that way for what could be minutes or hours, tied together, rafting lazily upon a high tide of chemicals, riding wave after wave of endorphins and dopamine and serotonin until gradually Jonah is spent and his knot slowly recedes. As his heat fades and Jonah gradually slips from him, Elliot finds himself battling an unaccountable feeling of emptiness, a deep pang of unhappiness at their separation, and it’s this that finally rouses him by degrees into full consciousness.

He turns his head and, well, nuzzles Jonah’s cheek, wanting to be connected to him, still. Jonah blinks dazedly and smiles at him after a moment, a little uncertainly.

“Hey,” says Elliot.

Jonah’s smile flickers a little brighter, and he laughs. It’s a bit wrecked. He riffles Elliot’s hair and then shifts, leaving Elliot abruptly cold for a second. When he returns, though, he’s bearing the warm washcloth, which he proceeds to run gently over Elliot’s stomach and thighs. Elliot hums with pleasure.

“When can we do that again?” he asks, aware that he sounds smug and content. Jonah responds by pressing a kiss to the underside of Elliot’s jaw. Elliot shivers and arches and all but purrs, but when he reaches up to run his hand over Jonah’s face, something about the way Jonah tenses makes him shift in Jonah’s arms to really look at him. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and from this angle, up close, all the angles of his face are starker and more interesting than Elliot’s ever properly appreciated before. He’s not sufficiently distracted by Jonah’s face to ignore the tightness around his eyes, however, and he realizes all at once that something’s wrong.

The pang of unhappiness that shoots through Elliot at this thought is deep and sharp and serious, and he sits up abruptly, cupping Jonah’s face in his hands and trying to hold him still long enough to parse the anxiety in his eyes. He feels like words are still beyond him, perhaps beyond them both, and he wonders for a moment if maybe bonding with someone like this comes with a built-in mental bond, too; but he’s unable to figure out what’s happening in Jonah’s head just by looking not his dark, soft eyes, and that brings into sharp relief all the things he doesn’t really know yet about Jonah — and how abrupt and sudden all of this has been.

“Was it,” he tries, his voice gone hollow and small. “Was it — not —”

“It was perfect,” Jonah says, his eyes widening as he realizes what Elliot is asking. “You’re perfect.” He pulls Elliot into a kiss, and Elliot leans into it shamelessly for a moment before pulling back and trying to focus.

“Then...what...?”

Jonah swallows. “Are you really — was this — how do you feel?”

Elliot winds his arms around Jonah’s neck. “Kinda high,” he says, nuzzling Jonah’s neck. “Like I belong to you.”

“Oh, _god_ ,” Jonah says, sounding mortified. Elliot blanches and pulls back. Jonah looks honestly a little agonized.

“Please don’t be upset,” Elliot blurts. “If it wasn’t what you wanted, we can, we can figure something out, we don’t have to—” he breaks off, abruptly, as the reality of what he’s suggesting sinks in. Just thinking about severing this connection is agony. It pierces him through like a clean slice between the ribs.

“It’s not that,” Jonah says. He pulls Elliot down into his arms and holds him tight when Elliot scrambles to get as close as he can. “It was — I’ve wanted you for so long. I just — I wanted to get it right, I didn’t want to rush you or pressure you or — I wanted it to be gradual. Whenever it happened, I wanted you to feel so, so sure about this. About us. I didn’t want you to be _brainwashed_ into wanting me because of _biology_.”

“Jonah,” Elliot whispers, his stomach sinking to a place so low and dark he feels it threatening to swallow him. He remembers how distressed Jonah was on the way to his apartment. Elliot had only been somewhat aware of him in the haze of his confused arousal, but now that his head is clear, it’s coming back vividly. Oh, god, Jonah thinks he’s only in love with him because of _chemicals_.

In love with him.

He kisses Jonah’s temple and tilts his chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. “I remember what Nicholas told you,” he says. “On the way over.”

“You do,” Jonah says guardedly.

“He’s not wrong,” Elliot says.

He lets that sink in. Jonah doesn’t look away from him, but Elliot thinks some of the tension ebbs from his clenched jaw, his tightened muscles.

“I don’t think it’s a coincidence this happened after you came back from Europe,” Elliot says. “After I spent the whole summer missing you.”

Jonah flinches at that, as if the idea of Elliot being parted from him, and being unhappy about it, is painful, and Elliot clings to him more tightly, suddenly intensely grateful that now they can just have an excuse to cut all the bullshit and _be together_.

“I think this happened because I _was_ sure of you,” he says. “I was finally ready — it was time for this to happen, so my body just... responded to what I wanted.”

Jonah stares at him. Elliot feels himself turn red, but he forces himself not to look away. He feels exposed and vulnerable and the only thing making that bearable is understanding that he’s not alone, that Jonah is also exposed and vulnerable, and that as long as they’re leaning on each other, they will get through everything that’s awkward and fraught about this.

“You fled after you asked me out to coffee,” Jonah reminds him. “You were going to forget the whole thing ever happened.”

“I,” Elliot starts, “I didn’t, I wasn’t,” and then as he reaches guiltily for an explanation, Jonah lets out a jittery laugh.

“You,” he pronounces, “are _ridiculous_. And I am always waiting for you. I don’t know what to do if I’m not waiting for you.”

“Oh.” Elliot presses their foreheads together. “Now you help me make up for lost time.”

Jonah breaks into a laugh, thankfully, and Elliot grins and kisses him. Jonah doesn’t let him pull away, and for a long moment they just snog like teenagers. Jonah eventually pushes him back against the pillows, tongue-fucking him lazily until Elliot sighs into his mouth, “This is so much better than not kissing you,” satisfied when Jonah’s cheeks flush and he smiles against Elliot’s lips.

“This is worth all the time I spent not kissing you,” he says. “You are definitely worth the wait.”

“Shameless flattery,” Elliot murmurs. “Do go on.”

Jonah presses kisses over the arch of Elliot’s throat. “Haven’t you been flattered enough this evening?”

“Not remotely,” Elliot sighs, squirming to give him better access. “I need you to fill me with your —” a gasp “—compliments.”

“Mmm.” Jonah nips teasingly at Elliot’s collarbone. “Even though the compliments come from, what was the description you used once? The lovechild of Edith Piaf and Addison DeWitt?”

“That’s a terrible description of you,” Elliot says fervently. “I was clearly drunk when I said that, you’re not _nearly_ as hot as that description implies.”

“Oh, I think I’m precisely that hot,” says Jonah. “But there was also the time you presented me as bargain-basement Tim Curry.” Elliot winces. “And then again as third-string national tour Norma Desmond.” His lips quirk.

“Well, I mean — fine, you’re second-string Norma Desmond material, at least,” Elliot says, laughing.

“And then again as the shameful result of Joel Grey’s illicit affair with an Alexander McQueen fever dream.”

Jonah barely makes it through this recitation before he cracks up, and Elliot sputters, “Okay, did you _memorize_ these?”

“Oh, there are so many more where those came from.” Jonah rests his head against Elliot’s shoulder, laughing silently.

Elliot combs his fingers through Jonah’s hair. “I love you,” he whispers helplessly, because the truth of it is thumping, terrifying and loud, in his chest.

Jonah lifts his head and looks at Elliot. “I’ve only ever had one description of you,” he says softly, in that earnest, direct way that always leaves Elliot mortified and enthralled all at once.

He looks into Jonah’s eyes and waits.

Jonah says, “Mine,” and draws him close.

  
  
  
  


 

 

Before Elliot’s heat fully takes him over again, Jonah insists that they a) hydrate, b) shower, and c) change the sheets. Elliot would mock him harder for all this except he’s a) quite distracted and b) actually really grateful for the cooling, restorative effects of the water and the shower and the smooth welcoming slide of his clean body against clean sheets in the now lavender-scented air of Jonah’s candle-lit bedroom.

But all of that takes time, which means that afterwards, they’re both still lying, sated in afterglow, when Jonah’s apartment door buzzes.

“Fuck,” Jonah mumbles, disentangling himself from Elliot.

“It’s Nicholas, I can go,” Elliot mumbles, though he’s still a complete disheveled mess and his eyes are barely open.

“Stay right where you are.” Jonah presses a kiss to Elliot’s shoulder before he moves away, leeching away all the warmth of the bed when he goes. Elliot shivers and rolls over to watch him pull on a pair of jeans, noting distantly that he wasn’t sure before this that Jonah even _owned_ a pair of jeans. The thought makes him wonder what else he hasn’t noticed, and when Jonah departs to answer the door, Elliot sits up and looks around him. He’s been too out of it up until now to really even notice where they are, but it hits him all at once that this is Jonah’s bedroom, his inner sanctum, the part of himself he shows to — well. To a parade of casual fucks who won’t actually care, and now to Elliot, who suddenly finds that he does care.

Of course it looks sort of like a hotel room.

The room is surprisingly devoid of the garish colors Jonah loves to wear; it’s neat and clean and spare, without any furniture except a large dresser, a floor mirror, and a bedside table next to a giant bed. The bedsheets are a rich cream, just like the previous set, and the walls are decorated in framed sepia photographs of vintage theatres. There’s a strangely formalized look to it all, and Elliot thinks about the years Jonah’s spent apart from his family, no photographs or christmas cards to clutter the place and remind him of home.

Instead, on the dresser, there’s a collection of show programs, dried flowers, notes from cast members past. The theatre has adopted Jonah, Elliot thinks, and it’s not letting him go.

He feels a pang at this — something sharp and possessive, and more than a little guilty. He’s always been baffled by, and maybe more than a little wary of, Jonah’s open gregariousness. He’s never quite believed that someone could really be that aggressively pleasant to everybody (except him), and truly mean it. But now, looking around at Jonah’s strangely formal, impersonal bedroom, the truth of it finally hits him: Jonah hasn’t had the luxury of being anything but nice. Jonah’s been trying to recreate a support system from scratch, anyway he can.

It takes him a moment to realize that what he’s feeling is anger — towards Jonah’s parents, mainly, for jettisoning him, for dumping him onto the world without a safety net, leaving him with all his talent and goodness and heart to fend for himself, and then only bothering to extend the hope of reconnection when Jonah proved to be able to succeed without them.

But it’s also anger at himself — anger and mortification at himself for being so, so petty all this time, so worried about appearances and artifice and what was and wasn’t real between them, what was and wasn’t real about Jonah himself, when the truth was that it had all been real: Jonah had never been playing games or trading in false promises; he got away clean from all his dalliances and everyone loved him, and that had always seemed like a terrible trap born of insincerity to Elliot, but in fact it was just the opposite: he’d always been upfront about what he wanted from people. With everyone, in fact, but Elliot. It’s because, Elliot realizes now, Jonah knew all this time that Elliot wouldn’t believe him if he’d told him. Hell, Elliot had barely believed _himself_ , even as he was asking Jonah out. And yet, even without advertising it, Jonah hadn’t exactly hidden how he felt. _This thrumming awareness of absence_.

Elliot reaches for the nearest pillow and clutches it, riddled with embarrassment and mortification and giddy happiness and every other awful wonderful tangle of feelings.

Jonah _loves_ him. Jonah loves _him_.  

I’m not letting you go, Elliot vows.

He’s still smiling goofily into the pillow when Jonah comes back armed with two blessed prescription bottles.

“Nicholas says he thinks now you’ve thrown off the first wave of heat, the suppressant should take effect, if not now then within a few hours,” Jonah says. He grabs a bottle of water from the dresser and holds it out to Elliot with the smaller pill bottle.

Elliot sits up, alert; his muscles protest a little, reminding him that his body has been shamelessly used and taken for hours and that probably he won’t be feeling so smug about it when he wakes up sore in the morning. Now, though, even though his heat has mostly subsided, his arousal is still there, fierce and simmering and telling him he needs more, and more, and more. He bypasses the proffered water and tugs Jonah down to the bed and climbs shamelessly into his lap. Jonah makes a startled noise.

“What if I don’t take the suppressant,” Elliot says breathily, in between kisses. “You could keep me here all weekend, keep _filling_ me,” and he shudders in need at the thought. He reaches down to undo the buttons of Jonah’s jeans.  Jonah sucks in a breath and sets the bottles back on the table.

“Christ,” he says unsteadily. He moves to pull his fly open without another word of protest, and Elliot hums happily. Jonah’s cock is already hardening, and Elliot moves to take it into his mouth, desperate to feel it growing against his tongue, wanting to trace its ridges down to the knot, the part that’s _just for him_ , him and only him. He lets out a reedy, aroused moan when he gets his lips around the base of Jonah’s cock, and then another moan when he realizes he can feel Jonah’s knot beginning to form under the swirl of his tongue. The idea of him having all of this girth inside of him is nearly unfathomable, even though he’s already taken it twice. God, he thinks, feeling a bit gluttonous as he explores the burgeoning shape of it with his mouth. Jonah spent years practically fighting off admirers and in the end, it’s just me, I get to be the one who has this whenever I want.

Jonah’s hand settles in Elliot’s hair, cool and gentle.

“Elliot,” he murmurs. “Sweetheart, if you want that inside you, I need you to stop.”

Elliot lets out a petulant noise of protest but releases Jonah’s erection, his eyes still on the slight swell of the knot. Jonah’s voice drops. “Jesus, Elliot.” He tilts Elliot’s chin up and regards Elliot’s blissed-out face. “You’re going to make me swell whenever I look at you.”

Elliot’s expression probably does something then that looks like _Yes, please_ , because Jonah laughs, sweetly exasperated, and kisses him. Then he pushes his jeans off the rest of the way, shoving them off the bed before curling back around Elliot, skin to skin and everything Elliot wants.

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you,” he says, his voice gone low and deep. “You’d love it if I just kept you knotted and full for the rest of the weekend.”

Elliot draws in a sharp breath that probably tells Jonah everything he needs to know. He cups Jonah’s face in his hand. “You can keep me like that forever,” he whispers.

Jonah mutters a curse and kisses him. “And that’s why you have to take the damn suppressant,” he says through gritted teeth. “You can’t just _say_ things like that.”

“But that’s what I _want_ ,” Elliot pouts.

“That’s what your heat wants,” Jonah points out, entirely unnecessarily, Elliot thinks. “Forgive me if I’m not ready to turn you into a supine broodmare just yet.”

The alacrity with which his body responds to that, like it can’t _wait_ to be turned into a supine broodmare, is alarming enough that it jolts Elliot out of his haze of arousal a bit. Perhaps Jonah has a point.

Still. He waves a hand at Jonah’s erection. “You’re just going to waste all that?”

Jonah’s lips twitch. “No,” he says. “You’re going to take the suppressant and then I’m going to knot you with all my senses intact, and you’re going to be one hundred percent aware of what’s happening to you, and no one is going to go into a rut or perform sexual acts upon anyone else without their express consent, and it’s going to be magnificent,” he says. “Deal?”

Elliot is about to point out that there’s zero point to being able to manifest a biological imperative to mindlessly fuck if you don’t seize the opportunity to mindlessly fuck, but then he remembers Jonah’s uncertain face from before. Jonah needs reassurance, he reminds himself. He needs Elliot to be loud and vocal and enthusiastic and coherent the whole time, because he’s _Jonah_ and he’s _annoyingly perfect_ , and Elliot is never going to give him any reason to doubt that Elliot wants him.

He leans up and kisses Jonah, and he’s never consciously tried to make a kiss sweet, but for what it’s worth, he tries now. When he pulls back, Jonah’s eyes are soft on his face, so maybe he’s done all right. He reaches across Jonah’s broad chest for the bottles.

“Fine,” he says. “I guess I’ll let you have your sexy contraception and your sexy consent.”

“Good,” Jonah says. He wraps his arms around Elliot and leans in to nuzzle his ear. Elliot shivers. “I need them to balance out my manly sexual dominance and my newfound possessive streak.”

“How possessive are we talking,” Elliot murmurs, in between swallowing his medication.

Jonah lowers his voice. “I am a walking possessive pronoun right now. It’s embarrassing.”

“Tell me,” says Elliot, mesmerized.

“You’re mine,” Jonah says thickly, sounding a little ragged, like he’s unable to hold the words inside of him. “You’re mine, your mouth is mine, your body is mine, your kisses are mine, your absurd little pouts are mine, you’re _my_ beautiful high-maintenance genius, and I’m going to keep you in my bed with my cock inside of you, for as long as I want. I’m going to have you every way I want, I’m going to fuck you as hard as I want, and I’m going to ruin as many of your ridiculous Oxfords as I want.”

Elliot’s throat has gone so dry by the end of this speech that when he tries, finally, to form words, he has to reach for the water first.  “Jesus christ,” he manages finally. “Okay.”

Jonah quirks an eyebrow at him. “Okay?”

“Yes,” Elliot says, arching into him. “Please ruin all my shirts.”

“I’ll buy you more.” Jonah’s eyes are full of amusement.

“I’m going to be the best thing you’ve ever owned,” Elliot tells him, pulling Jonah back down between the sheets.

  
  
  
  
  
  


“See?” Elliot tells Jonah in the morning, stretching in satisfaction as Jonah works on mouthing his way over the curve of Elliot’s hipbone.  “Heat all gone. Insatiable sexual appetite still intact. You had nothing to worry about.”

“Hmm,” Jonah says, lightly biting Elliot’s thigh. “So you say, but I’m still waiting for the freakout to hit.”

Elliot swats at him and then gets distracted by the soft tangles of Jonah’s hair. “Not happening,” he says. “Try me.” He can sense Jonah’s eyebrow arch without seeing it. “Seriously. Go on. You’ve already told me your deep dark possessive urges, and that was fine. What else can there possibly be?”

“Move in with me,” Jonah says smoothly, sliding his hand up the inside of Elliot’s thigh, and Elliot’s shock turns into a gasp of arousal when Jonah’s mouth slips over his cock.

He nearly arches off the mattress. “You _cheat_ , this is _cheating_ , oh my _god_ ,” he gasps, and falls back against the pillow, twisting his fingers in Jonah’s hair and shuddering when Jonah just hums around him and brushes his fingers over Elliot’s perineum. “ _Jonah_ ,” Elliot croons. He closes his eyes and imagines having this every morning, waking up like this, just like this, full and blissed-out and swimming in endorphins. Of filling Jonah’s closet with rows of smart white shirts against all Jonah’s ridiculous clothes. Of lining Jonah’s bedroom walls with photos of people instead of buildings, of turning his apartment into someplace to live and not just a place to go to fuck and shower. Of squabbling over play read-throughs and making out on every surface and curling up against him on the couch. They could get a _cat_ , he thinks — no, _two_ cats. He’d make Jonah name them Meowsencrantz and Guildenpurr. He could —

Jonah licks a long strike down the base of his cock and Elliot quivers and moans, “ _Yes_ , fuck, yes, I’ll move in wi—oh, fuck,” and comes.

He tugs Jonah up to be kissed, squirming against him as Jonah reaches down and strokes him through his climax. “You’re so shameless,” he gasps. “I’m going to fill your closets with so many white button-downs.”

“Astonishingly, I do believe I’ll survive,” Jonah says, biting his chin.

“You’re such an asshole,” Elliot replies, curling around him. “You with your damn Easter-egg suits and your Italian loafers and your _Mark Rylance_ , Jesus, you’re like a fop who forgot how to get back to the 18th century.”

“An Elizabethan antiquary,” Jonah agrees blithely, kissing his throat.

“Steampunk cosplayer who ran out of brass.”

“You’re getting lazy,” Jonah replies. “I think you’ll find I have plenty of brass.”

“Really,” Elliot purrs. “I can show you where to put it.”

“Interesting proposition.” Jonah arches against him, erection pressing firmly against Elliot’s abdomen. “Is that a dirigible in your pocket?”

“Right next to my diving bell and my gas lamp,” Elliot breathes.

“Well in that case, let me fly you to the moon, submerge into your depths, and turn you on.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Elliot says in disgust. “I can’t _believe_ you’re what I want to have sex with.”

“Welcome to the last four years of my life,” Jonah says, eyes sparkling and unrepentant.

“You mean the next four years,” Elliot says. “And the next, and the next, and the—”

“I love you,” Jonah says, pushing him back against the pillows. “You insufferable brat.”

“ _Your_ insufferable brat,” Elliot reminds him.

And Jonah whispers, “Yes, you are,” and commences the highly agreeable task of putting Elliot in his place.


End file.
